Home for Christmas
by clevermycroft
Summary: "From home to home and heart to heart, from one place to another. The warmth and joy of Christmas, bring us closer to each other." - Emily Matthews


On the twentieth of December in the early hours of the morning, Mycroft Holmes was in bed. The sun was just peeking over the horizon and soft gold light dribbled inside through the window, making the fine dusting of snow on the sill glitter like diamonds, and Gregory Lestrade was draped over him like a cat. As usual he was curled around Mycroft's left side with one arm around his torso and their ankles tangled together, snoring so loudly the entire room shook.

Mycroft didn't mind. He treasured these moments, these early mornings where he could just lay perfectly still and count the seconds between each of Greg's breaths. It was wonderful, not having to think about parliament or worry about Sherlock or anything to do with the state of the globe's economy. It was just him and Greg, the only two people in the world. He ran his fingers through the policeman's silver hair, listening to the purring sound he made and wondering what an appropriate Christmas present would be. It was their first Christmas together and Mycroft was determined to make it, like everything he did, perfect. He had considered all the boring, safe gifts (socks, gift vouchers, etc) but he wanted to give Gregory something… special. Something no-body else would think to give him.

He was just started to resettle back down beneath the sheets when his mobile rang and everything started to go wrong.

Lestrade grumbled in his sleep and rolled over, burying his face in the pillow instead of in Mycroft's shoulder. "Don't," he mumbled sleepily. "Just…"

Snoring.

Mycroft smiled fondly and answered the phone.

"Sir, there's been a situation," Anthea informed him. In the background he could hear the sound of tyres on gravel and knew she was already on her way.

Mycroft sighed. "Very well. Bring the car around."

When Greg woke up several hours later, Mycroft was gone.

"Myc?" he mumbled, reaching across the mattress. He blinked awake when, instead of touching the warm skin of his lover, he felt nothing but cold neatly made bedding. "Mycroft?"

His bleary eyes fell on a small square of white paper on Mycroft's pillow and he suddenly felt wide awake. He sat up so quickly his head swam, visions of kidnappers and terrorists and a bloodied Mycroft being bundled off in a white van flashing across his mind's eye, and grabbed the piece of paper. Rubbing his eyes impatiently, he prayed he wouldn't be reading a ransom note.

Thankfully, he recognised the neat, elegant script and felt himself relax slightly. Five words were printed across the paper in Mycroft's handwriting. Just five, infuriating words.

'_I'll be home for Christmas.'_

"Ah," Greg sighed, the relief he'd felt moments before drained away, replacing itself with a dull ache of sadness in the pit of his stomach. He knew what the note meant, and it wasn't just a sweet reminder of his husband's affections.

Instead of getting up and getting ready for work, Greg pulled the covers up over his head and curled up into a ball in bed with the note hugged tightly to his chest. He wasn't sure how long he stayed there, but Sally left three messages on the machine and Sherlock texted him twice.

That night Greg's mobile buzzed. Mycroft's name flashed across the screen.

"Where the fuck are you?" Lestrade shouted as soon as he answered.

"That's classified, I'm afraid," Mycroft replied. He sounded exhausted, but Greg could hear the small smile in his voice.

He groaned. "Can you give me anything?" Greg asked impatiently. "A country? Continent? Hemisphere?"

Mycroft chuckled quietly down the phone line. "Northern."

"Are you safe?"

"Always."

"When will you be home?"

"As soon as possible."

"Before Christmas, your note said."

"Well…"

"Brilliant."

"There's no need to get cross."

"No, of course not, I have absolutely no right to be angry with you," Greg snapped, resisting the urge to throw the stupid phone across the room. "It's not like you snuck off in the dead of night and didn't tell me where you were going or what you were doing or anything. Oh," he added sarcastically, "hang on a minute."

Mycroft sighed. "I know, I'm sorry. It's… it's been a long day."

"You're telling me," Greg grumbled moodily.

He heard Mycroft laugh again and committed the sound to memory. They swapped stories about their days, Greg sharing everything and Mycroft nothing. Greg told him about being so late for work, even Sherlock was worried and Mycroft described his horrific experience with airline food.

Neither of them said anything for a little while after that. They just sat and listened to each other breathing.

"I miss you," Greg said finally.

"I miss you too."

"I hate that I don't know where you are."

"I know."

"I hate that you have secrets."

"I would tell you if I could," Mycroft whispered earnestly. "I'd tell you everything. I'd bore you senseless with every single detail and demand you accompany me everywhere, including business trips."

Greg smiled. "You'd be pushing your luck there."

"I'm serious, Gregory, I would tell you everything," he repeated desperately. "I'm not willingly withholding information from you, it's for your own safety. Please tell me you understand that."

"I understand," he sighed, running his free hand over his unshaven face, "but that doesn't mean I have to like it."

Greg heard voices in the background. "I have to go," Mycroft said.

"What? Why?"

"Duty calls."

"Oh, okay."

There was a pause where they knew they should say goodbye but neither of them did.

"It's alright if you don't make it home for Christmas," Greg told him softly. "I'll understand. Saving the world is more important than some stupid holiday."

Mycroft made frustrated noise at the back of his throat. "Gregory, listen to me," he murmured, quick and quiet, as if he were about to divulge top-secret information. "While the holiday itself may be stupid, nothing is more important to me than you. I _will_ be home in five days so I can spend Christmas with the man I love. Alright?"

Greg felt himself smile stupidly. "Good, 'cause if you'd stayed away I would've throttled you."

Mycroft's laughter turned into a sigh. "I really have to go," he said.

"Please don't."

"I'll see you on the twenty-fifth. I promise."

"Myc-"

"I really must go now, Gregory," he paused. "I love you."

Greg closed his eyes and held onto the words, hugged them tight to his chest, warm and comforting and repeating themselves over and over again in Mycroft's voice. "I love you too," he murmured. "Stay safe for me, yeah?"

"Always."

Then the line went dead and Greg felt like he'd just severed a limb.

It was three days before he heard from Mycroft again. The days passed in a flurry of paperwork for the Yard. Greg had always envied people who had jobs which allowed them to take time off during the holiday season, people who had time to relax and _enjoy_ themselves instead of being cooped up all the time in an office reading about how a husband strangled his wife in Camden and stuffed her body in the rubbish bin. This year, however, he was grateful for the work. The case files he sorted served the as a useful distraction. He knew that if he was back at his flat he wouldn't be able to do anything else except sit in his hotel room and stare at his mobile, willing it to ring, and imagining all kinds of horrific reasons Mycroft hadn't called.

"You'd think people would be starting to feel the holiday spirit by now," Sally grumbled as she dropped a fresh stack of files on his desk. She blew a strand of curly hair out of her face and frowned. "Stop killing and maiming each other for the week. It's Christmas, for Christ's sake. "

"You should organise a press conference. Take that message to the people."

"Like they'd listen to me," she smiled weakly. "Anyway, the freak'd pull that texting trick again and ruin it."

Greg chuckled. "Wrong."

Sally just rolled her eyes and started moaning about the weather instead.

In his pocket, Greg felt his mobile buzz and his heart leapt. He waved Sally away, demanding she go to some actual work, and she eventually skulked out of the room like a child who'd just been told off. When he was sure she was safely back at her desk, Greg got his phone and read the text message beneath the desk.

_Everything's fine. Will be home  
>for Christmas. Maybe. Hopefully.<br>Please don't worry.  
>MH<br>_

The words 'maybe' and 'hopefully' filled Greg with a kind of heavy dread that settled in the pit of his stomach and refused to budge. He'd never really cared for Christmas before, never bought into the whole idea of it. It was just a stupid holiday someone had invented however many of years ago to sell things regular, sane people would never ordinarily buy like novelty animal shaped nailbrushes and things like that. But, for some reason, this year was different. He wanted to celebrate Christmas and he wanted to do it with Mycroft Holmes. The idea that their first Christmas together would be spent on opposite sides of the globe was almost too much.

"You alright, boss?" Sally had appeared at the door again, her arms laden with more case files and her brow furrowed with concern.

Greg sniffed, stuffing his phone back in his pocket and flashing a half smile at the sergeant. "Yeah, of course," he replied before quickly changing the subject. "Please don't tell me I need to sign all of those."

In a lavish hotel room on the other side of the planet, Mycroft Holmes sat surrounded by important government documents, with his fingers tented beneath his lips, staring intently at his mobile phone. Greg hadn't responded to the text he'd sent fourteen hours ago and it was taking all his self-control not for Mycroft not to physically tear out his own hair. Anthea stood by the door, her Blackberry in her hands and her fingers flying across the keys so quickly it looked like she wasn't touching them at all.

"Sir, it's Christmas Eve," Anthea reminded him, not looking up from her phone. "Shouldn't you be going somewhere?"

Mycroft sighed and buried his face in his hands. "I should," he replied, chewing nervously on the inside of his thumb, "but I can't."

"Oh? Why not?" she asked distantly, glancing out the window at the city below. "I'm sure the good Detective Inspector is waiting for you."

"Anthea," he said warningly. "Enough."

After a short pause, however, she spoke again. "Mr Holmes, may I be frank with you?"

"I don't suppose I can stop you."

"You love Detective Inspector Lestrade, do you not?"

Mycroft blushed a fantastic shade of burgundy, but nodded.

"Well, I'm sure the rest of the cabinet will agree with me when I say that Christmas is a time to spend with those you love and, while I'm sure you're having an absolute whale of a time here sorting out everything that is wrong with the world, you would much rather be with him."

"Obviously I would rather that," he snapped impatiently. "But I haven't finished my work here! I can't just go, I can't…"

Anthea arched an eyebrow at him. "You're not going to fix the world in a day, sir," she told him. "Not even you can do that. We've been here a week. So, instead of being miserable here, you should go be happy with him."

"But what about the-"

"I'll handle it," she insisted smoothly, handing him his briefcase with a small smile. "Please. You deserve time off, sir."

He felt a sudden rush of affection for his assistant, but of course he didn't let it show. He sniffed haughtily, took the briefcase and straightened his tie. "Call Frank, tell him to have the plane ready in ten minutes."

"Already done."

"And contact Heathrow, tell them I'm coming. Clear a path for me at customs."

"Of course, sir."

"Indeed," he agreed, sweeping past her and heading for the door. "Oh, and Anthea?"

"Yes, sir?"

He smiled with half his mouth. "Thank you."

She quirked her lips slightly, the closest to a real smile she ever got. "Anytime, sir. Have a safe flight."

After a six hour flight, adjustments made for time difference, and a twenty-five minute drive from the airport, Mycroft arrived at Greg Lestrade's apartment building. "Thank you, Simon," he nodded to the driver as he unfolded himself from the back seat. "I'll text you when to collect me."

"Very good sir."

He let himself in, using the key Greg had snuck into his wallet one evening after one of their "dates". The lock clicked open and he signalled Simon that he was safe and the Porshe purred away back down the street. There was no lift in Greg's building, something the usually annoyed Mycroft endlessly, but tonight he wasn't even thinking about it as he took to the stairs, bounding up two at a time. When he reached Greg's door his heart was beating painfully loud. The door was unlocked and Mycroft let himself in.

It was dark inside, the room was lit only by the hot orange glow of the electric box fire sizzling in the grate and the dimly flashing lights of the Christmas tree in the corner. Greg was lying on the sofa wearing a pair of Mycroft's emerald coloured silk pyjamas, sprawled out on his stomach with one hand tucked under his head like a pillow and the other clutching a half-empty beer bottle to his armpit. His feet twitched over the arm of the couch like a puppy dreaming about running and Mycroft couldn't help but smile at him. Carefully setting his briefcase down at the door, Mycroft shrugged off his coat and hung it on the peg beside Greg's mackintosh.

Empty take-away boxes littered the floor and, on the coffee table in front of him, Greg had laid an extra plate. Mycroft smiled sadly as he tip-toed over to the sofa, avoiding the half-used rolls of wrapping paper and Sellotape. He knelt at Greg's side and carefully extracted the bottle from his hands before gently shaking him awake.

"Gregory?" he whispered, rubbing his thumb against the silver hair dusting Lestrade's temple. "Gregory, wake up. It's me."

The policeman woke, breathing sharply through his nose and tilting his head in Mycroft's direction without opening his eyes. "You're here," he mumbled, reaching up and running his fingertips over Mycroft's face sleepily. He kept his eyes closed, tracing Mycroft's features blindly as if trying to memorise his face through touch alone.

Mycroft smiled, catching his wrist, pressing a kiss to his palm. "Of course. I said I would be."

"And what sort of time d'you call this?" he asked, arching his back like a cat and hearing the satisfying click of bones.

Mycroft checked his watch. "It's just gone midnight."

Greg finally opened his eyes, blinked up at Mycroft, a sleepy smile stretched across his face. "Officially Christmas day. You made it."

"Naturally," he smirked. "I'm always punctual."

"Naturally," he chuckled, hauling himself up to sit properly and stretching his arms above his head.

Mycroft clambered up to sit beside him. "Gregory, I've been away for five days," he reminded his lover in a somewhat sulky tone. "Do I not get a kiss hello?"

"Aha," Greg crowed. "Wait a minute." He reached behind him and dug around for a moment in the space between the couch cushions, returning with a bundle of what appeared to be weeds which he held above their heads.

"What is that?"

"I do believe it's mistletoe."

"Gregory," Mycroft frowned, examining the leaves, "that's parsley."

"Well, yes," Greg shrugged. "But in the spirit of Christmas this parsley has bravely stepped forward to play the part of mistletoe since I, er, couldn't find any actual mistletoe."

"I see," he laughed. "Very festive."

"It's called creative license, Myc, you have to use your imagination."

"Very well, very well," he took a deep breath. "May I kiss you now?"

"We're under the mistletoe," Greg told him. "I think that's the idea."

Without any further hesitation, Mycroft leaned into him and pressed their mouths together. Greg melted into the touch, dropping the parsley/mistletoe so it disappeared down behind the sofa, and wrapped his arms tightly around Mycroft's shoulders. His tongue slid along Mycroft's lip and the politician groaned and pulled Greg on to his lap, one hand on the back of his neck and the other pressed to the base of his spine. After five days apart, Mycroft had almost forgotten how wonderful it was to touch Greg, the feel of silk against his skin, the gentle scratch of stubble and the smell of cigarettes and coffee lingering on his pulse points.

"I've missed you," he murmured into Greg's mouth, his fingers trailing up his spine, disappearing into his hair.

"I can tell," Greg replied pointedly, tracing the outline of Mycroft's belt buckled suggestively. "Shall I give you your Christmas present now?" he asked, dropping his mouth to Mycroft's throat, sliding the leather of his belt away from his trousers. "Since you've been so good?"

Mycroft smiled, the corners of his mouth turning up without him really being aware of it, and ran his fingers through the fine hairs at the base of Greg's neck. "I love you."

"I love you too," Greg replied, sucking gently on Mycroft's lower lip. "Now be quiet and let me ravage you."

Later, Greg was lying in bed and watched the shadows of snow drifting past the window while he flipped through the book his mother had sent him, _Ten Smart Things Gay Men Can Do to Improve Their Lives_. He had come out to his family three years ago and since then his mother was determined to prove just how much she supported him. He scoffed as he flipped through the chapter entitled _Graduate From Eternal Adolescence _then quickly stuffed the book out of sight when he heard Mycroft's footsteps outside the door.

The politician appeared at the door in Greg's ratty old terry cloth dressing gown which reached just above his knee, carrying two mugs of eggnog and a thin, square parcel wrapped in brown paper under one arm. "Good morning," he smiled warmly at Greg and passing him a mug and planting a kiss on his forehead.

"Morning," he yawned, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He nodded at the robe. "Suits you," he smirked.

Mycroft rolled his eyes, shrugging the gown off and snuggling back under the blankets, his icy feet brushing against Greg's warm skin so the policeman jumped. Then it was Mycroft's turn to smirk. "Here," he said, handing Greg the parcel.

Greg just blinked at the gift. "What's this?" he asked stupidly and Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"It's Christmas," he said condescendingly, rubbing the back of his knuckles along Greg's bare shoulder blade. "I thought gifts were a traditional part of the celebrations."

"They are, but…"

"But what?"

"I thought you were my present this year," he said, his eyes moving between Mycroft and the parcel in his hands. "You coming back in one piece. That's all I really wanted, I didn't expect you to-"

"But I have," Mycroft interrupted, waving away Greg's words as if they were flies buzzing about his face. "Please, open it."

A grin spread across Greg's face. "Well," he shrugged, tearing the paper open, "if you insist."

It was a record. An original copy of _London Calling_, Greg'sfavourite album of his favourite band. For a moment he was confused; he already owned three copies of this album and Mycroft knew it. He ran his hands over the slightly worn cover. Then his eye caught something, a small scribble in the across Paul Simonon's back.

"It's signed," he somehow managed to say.

"Yes."

"By Joe Strummer."

"And Mick Jones," Mycroft pointed to a second signature in the corner. He bit his lip nervously. "Do you not like it? I can return it if you'd rather-"

"Myc," Greg said quietly, tracing the faint black marking with his fingertips. "You are going to have to prize this record out of my cold, dead hands. How did you…" he turned to Mycroft, his eyes wide with wonder. "How did you get this? _Where _did you get this?"

Mycroft blushed proudly. "I have my ways," he smirked. "So… you like it?"

Greg looked as though he was having difficulty forming words, so instead he just threw his arms around Mycroft's neck and hugged him tight.

"I'll take that as a yes then."

"I _love _it," he cried. "I love it and I love you, in that order. Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

Mycroft chuckled into his shoulder. "You're welcome."

"Ah, shit, my present's going to look really rubbish now," Greg moaned, reaching into his drawer and fishing out a small, flat, brightly coloured square. He held it uncomfortably for a moment, his eyes darting between The Clash's album and Mycroft. "I wasn't sure what to get you," he shrugged. "Since, y'know, you've already got everything anyone could ever want. But here," he shoved the parcel into Mycroft's hands uncomfortably. "Happy Christmas."

Mycroft's heart swelled as he pulled apart the wrapping, being frightfully careful not to rip or tear the paper. He opened one edge of the square and tipped it gently. A slim CD case decorated with beautifully drawn swirling patterns and images slipped out into Mycroft's hand. Greg wasn't usually an artistic man, but he had a certain flare when it came to drawing music. The words 'So you'll miss me when you're away' were carefully inscribed in 3D capitals along the spine and on the inside cover was the first and only picture of the two of them together. That time they'd snuck away for a weekend minibreak to Cornwall. They had gone to the seaside and Greg had insisted on photographic evidence that Mycroft did own an item of clothing that didn't come with a waistcoat and tie. Mycroft himself looked painfully awkward in a light blue linen shirt and cream coloured slacks, his eyes not on the camera but on Greg who looked effortlessly cool and shockingly beautiful, like he'd just stepped off the set of a James Bond film. Sunglasses pushed up into his windswept, perfectly tousled hair looking totally at ease, Mycroft wasn't sure whether to feel jealous or aroused.

"It's wonderful," he whispered, running his fingers over the photograph before swinging his legs over the side of the bed and slotting the CD into the stereo on the bedside table. The first song was an old Bing Crosby number and his voice slowly filled the apartment.

_I'm dreaming tonight of a place I love  
>Even more then I usually do<br>And although I know it's a long road back  
>I promise you, I'll be home for Christmas<br>You can count on me_

"I thought it was fitting," Greg mumbled, sliding an arm around Mycroft's waist and kissed his the sensitive skin just below his ear.

"It's perfect," Mycroft whispered. He turned around in Greg's arms so they were facing each other and cupped Greg's face in his hands. "You're perfect."

Greg didn't reply, just leaned in and kissed him, pushing him backwards into the mattress. "Happy Christmas, Myc," he said quietly, his hands creeping up Mycroft's sides, petting softly along the curve of his hip.

Mycroft grinned into the kiss. "Happy Christmas, Gregory."


End file.
